To Drink, Perchance to See
by Satirist
Summary: There is one reality alone: to drink.


**Author's Note: **I have serious issues with parts of this. The last sentence alone has me screaming with frustration, but I'm been staring at this for a while now and there's just nothing I can do. The right words insist on eluding me, so I'm just going to post this and if by some chance the right words suddenly appear, well, then it'll be a completly different story. Enough rambling. On with the painful prose!

* * *

It was no use. No matter how much he tried to concentrate, he couldn't seem to remember where he was supposed to be. He knew there was something important he was supposed to be doing, but his brain just didn't seem to be functioning properly. Perhaps he ought to consult a physician? No, of course not! That would only result in less money for wine. And wine was really all he cared about.

He shook his head, instantly regretting the action. Nausea began whispering sadistically that he had had far too much to drink. Naturally, Stubbornness (and perhaps a bit of Misery, though the former would never allow him to admit it) reared it's head and refused to admit defeat. He had paid for the bottle and he would be damned if he didn't finish it! But perhaps it would be wise to wait a few moments before attempting to resume his drinking.

Across the room, he could hear someone making what sounded like a grandiose speech. Through the haze of alcohol and noise, he could only make out bits of what the man was saying, but it was enough to rouse him from his drunken stupor. Freedom? Justice? Hope? Ha! They were fools to hope, to believe that they could change the world. Though once upon a time, he had been a fool too. It didn't take long for him to realize just how hopeless it all was. And yet here where these men - boys, really, by the looks of some of them - still clinging on to the thought that they could make a difference. He scoffed loudly, wincing as his head throbbed in angry protest.

Well, at least those days were over. His naïve hopes and aspirations were all swept up in the allure of absinthe, wine and cynicism. And even in those times when he was far too tired to be cynical - because even cynicism can be tiring - he would always have his wine.

When the nausea had finally died down, he stood up and began making his way to the far side of the room, where the group of men were still debating and arguing amongst themselves. Though his stomach was no longer threatening to empty its contents, he was still quite drunk and as such his speech and motor skills were severely diminished. It took him far longer to reach the group than it should have and when he finally arrived, his clumsy feet tripped over a chair and he fell to the floor with a loud crash. Every one of the men turned to look at him. It was there, strewn awkwardly on the floor, dressed in his most threadbare clothes that he caught site of the man who had been making the overly passionate speech.

There were no words. All the insults and jeers he had been planning died down in his throat the moment he saw the leader of the men. The man, who had clearly been in a most important and vital part of his argument, turned his attention from his companions to the man lying on the floor. His expression was a strange combination of annoyance at being interrupted at so crucial a moment in his speech and curiosity as to the source of said interruption.

There was nothing he could say, not after seeing the man. All sense of bravado and what little courage had been dredged up by the wine fled his being the moment the man fixed him with that curious expression.

Pulling himself to his feet as quickly as he could, he muttered a quick apology and made his way back to his table. The young men quickly forgot him and resumed their discussion, leaving him to resume nursing his bottle. As much as he wanted to lose himself in the wine's warmth, he couldn't bring himself to enjoy it. His thoughts were solely occupied on the bright, shining blonde head that was once again flying into a fit of passion.

It was foolish to hope. No one would be able to convince him otherwise, but perhaps…perhaps listening to others hope might not be such a terrible idea. If it meant being able to watch the beautiful man, perhaps he wouldn't mind listening to what he had to say, even if his own reality didn't include the young man's faith in men.

The young man unexpectedly turned to look at him and all thoughts of wine and fools left his head, leaving in place bright hair, flashing eyes and passionate words. Wine, be damned he had found his new master!


End file.
